to run the risk of waking the whole house at two o’clock in the morning.
“Look at you,” Grace said from her seat at the table. She turned up the wick on the oil lamp and eyed him head to toe. Broad-shouldered. Muscular. Hair as black as coal. Still handsome, but his hollow-cheeked countenance startled her till she noticed his reddened nose poking through the coal dust. “A fine example for our children.”
They both gasped at the slip and wondered at the weight of it.
Grace found her voice again: “I don’t want drink in my house, Owen Morgan. I’ll not have it.”
Indignation pushed past Owen’s guilt and settled in, making itself at home in his mouth. “Your house, is it? Your house?” he yelled. “I suppose it’s your pay that puts food on the table and a roof over your head?” Owen grabbed the back of a chair to steady himself.
“Do you want to wake Violet?” Grace turned down the lamp as if to quiet him.
“Your house,” he continued. “And I’m what? A guest now?”
“A common drunkard, more like it.”
“You best hold your tongue, woman. I’ll not stand for it.”
“As if you could stand,” she countered.
He slammed the chair across the room, upending it. Grace jumped back in fear.
“I’m so sorry.” Owen reached for Grace’s arm, but she recoiled. “I didn’t mean to . . .” He righted the chair and sat down at the table across from her. “What kind of man am I?” He started to cry. “Look what you made me do.”
Anger swelled inside Grace, running off any hope for sympathy. She could feel the rigidity in her stance, in her soul. She knew she was looking down on her husband, judging him, but she could not help herself. “Get out of the house this minute.” She punctuated her statement with a fist to the table. “My father never took a drop of liquor in his life. I’ll not have a drunkard for a husband.” She stood up, hurried to the door, and held it open.
Owen pushed himself up and stood facing her. “Your father was a scoundrel. You and your highfalutin ways.” He took hold of the door. “Your father was nothing but a no-good coward.”
Grace slapped Owen across the face. He returned her blow without hesitation, and staggered out the door.
TO KEEP AWAKE IN CHURCH
To keep awake in church when inclined to be drowsy, lift one foot a little way from the floor and hold it there. It is impossible to go to sleep when your foot is poised in the air. This remedy, though simple, is very effectual and never fails to keep a person awake. —Mrs. Joe’s Housekeeping Guide, 1909
Let the Catholics sprinkle their babies. At Providence Christian we baptize by immersion, the way the good Lord intended. We used to “dunk” in the Lackawanna River. Had to cut away the ice in the middle of winter. Now we have an indoor baptistery. Souls can just as easily be saved near a modern coal furnace.
We try to help out wherever we can. Last fall, after Pearl Williams’s husband took up with that trollop from Bull’s Head, dark-skinned, I-talian most likely, we organized a pound party. Asked folks to donate one pound of food apiece to get the Williamses through winter. Members of Providence Christian did not disappoint. Pearl got herself enough flour, sugar, and canned goods to last a year. And we’re happy for her, even if she didn’t think to share her bounty with those of us who toiled on her behalf.
Missionaries, evangelists. We feed, house, and raise money for them all. There’s talk Billy Sunday might come to Scranton to preach next spring. Now that would be a thrill. Played outfield for the Chicago White Stockings before he found Jesus. Had his picture in the paper just last week. A fine-looking man, even old Miss Proudlock says so.
Wish we could do something for that poor Morgan girl, though. Traipsing all over town with that little Polish boy. Just makes matters worse. Most likely lonesome for her sister. Then again, growing up in Daisy’s shadow couldn’t have been easy. Never knew a more perfect child. Those eyes. That voice. And smart as a whip. It’s a wonder Violet wasn’t more jealous, if you ask us. She did have one advantage over Daisy, though. Never knew a child with more promise at the piano. Of course, that’s all over now. Has to be.
Tending to the needs of our flock—that’s our mission. Probably the same for Catholics, Episcopalians, even Jews. We’re proud to do the Almighty’s work. It’s the Christian thing to do.
CHAPTER FIVE
HATTIE HAPPENED TO BE OUT SWEEPING THE FRONT STEPS when she spotted Grace trooping toward the boarding house. Even before her sister reached the yard, Hattie could tell she was distraught. Grace had the habit of chewing her lower lip when she was troubled. Hattie put down her broom, grabbed two shawls, and led Grace upstairs and out to the second-floor porch for a little privacy.
After some coaxing, for Grace had always needed coaxing, even as a child, she told Hattie that Owen hadn’t come home in almost a week. Hattie’s hand flew to her heart, but before she could say a word, Grace explained, “He’s rented a room over Burke’s. A gin mill, of all places.”
Hattie wasn’t entirely surprised. He’d taken Daisy’s death about as hard as any father could.
Once Grace opened up, she recounted the whole night, including Owen’s drunken antics and the argument it had caused. Grace was upset about his leaving, of course, but Hattie couldn’t help thinking his comments about their father bothered her sister even more.
Owen had been right, Hattie thought, as she tried to comfort Grace. Mean-spirited, but right. Not that this excused his behavior, but their father had been a “no-good coward.” Old wounds opened and anger festered anew, surprising Hattie with their intensity.
Growing up, Hattie and her family had lived in a grand home, with the largest wraparound porch on North Main Avenue. Green-shingled second and third stories sat atop a ground floor of fieldstone. Six gables poked out of the roof, much to the disappointment of Hattie, who thought they should have seven like the house in Nathaniel Hawthorne’s novel.
Hattie and Grace’s father, Ivor Jones, a third vice president for the Delaware and Hudson Railroad, had amassed his wealth by investing in the mining industry and businesses associated with anthracite. As his fortune increased, so did his enemies, who accused him of making his money on the broken backs of the poor. Not that those in his circle were concerned about the poor, more likely they were simply jealous of his knack for using them to his advantage. At the same time, Ivor Jones sat on the board of the Hillside Home, an almshouse and insane asylum on the outskirts of Scranton. Unlike most board members, he spent time with the wards, and many a preacher praised Ivor’s dedication to these hapless souls.
In the fall of 1888, Bronwyn Jones, Ivor’s wife, had given birth to a son named for his father. Ivor Jr. made four children in all, including Hattie, thirteen; Lizzie, ten; and Gracie, seven. Although Ivor Sr. had always shown affection toward his children, at least in public, he seemed particularly taken with the boy.
“God has seen fit to grant me a son,” Hattie would often hear him say at church.
